Andre Villas-Boas

Ho ho ho! Happy Christmas! Or Feliz Natal! as AVB might say. Although that’s a bit of a stab in the dark as if I’ve learnt anything this season it’s that you can’t predict in any way what AVB is going to say, ever. He’s like a multilingual philosopher with a thesaurus, and no post-match interviewer has any idea how to deal with him. Anyway, Happy Christmas Premier League: on Monday night Chelsea FC gave the entire division an early Christmas present.

Fernando Torres, John Terry, Didier Drogba

First let’s clear up some misconceptions: as a term of address, Negro in South America means ‘man of the people’, ‘salt of the earth’, an archaic reference to the dark skin of the natives who lived there before the Europeans colonised. As such it is now used as a casual interjection to mean mate, pal, dude. I’m a Negro, you’re a Negro. That guy who wears crocs and socks and doesn’t know where the local bar is, he’s no Negro, but we are. There are no negative undertones, and any racial connection was lost a century ago. In fact these days it’s more often a term of endearment – what’s for certain is that in South America Luis Suarez would happily refer to himself as a Negro. Of course that doesn’t mean it was being used as such when he was not chin-wagging with Evra, nor that Suarez isn’t a twat, which he is, but to avoid any confusion, the word itself isn’t racist. 

Calling someone a black c*** is, of course, racist. Black as a word is not insulting, but to use it as part of an insult turns the whole phrase into a racist taunt. So, to say black man isn’t racist, but to say black c*** is. Unless you are a remarkably tactless gynaecologist specialising in African women. But that doesn’t happen. Similarly, you can be wantonly racist without using any racial language at all, you know who you are.

But what’s the big deal? I thought we’d got past all this racist nonsense long ago. Racism isn’t prevalent in football, just look at the Premier League: there are no pay differences between colours or creeds, all nationalities and races play alongside each other, hugging and celebrating together and suffering defeat in mutual support. If ever there were a pluralistic ideal its football. 

But there’s obviously a problem, because if there are no racist actions in football, that doesn’t mean there is no racist language, and although it may on the surface appear just as trivial as any other casual insult, racist language is something we must repel.  Racist language is more than just insulting. It’s demeaning. It makes light of the centuries of oppression and bloodshed that have gone before. It renders the suffering of millions pointless. Calling someone a c*** is an insult to them, calling someone a black c*** creates a division in society based on colour that has an entire race being insulted. Of course you can argue that we won’t truly be an egalitarian society until racist language is treated with the same casual disregard as any petty insult, that’s to say until it provokes no reaction, but really, what good of campaigning for equality and freedom if the first thing we do with that freedom is to hark back to the same oppressive ways that went before?

What’s worst is the impact of racist language. So powerful are the emotions it engenders that racist abuse has the potential to make people believe they are part of a put-upon subdivision of society; an isolated and oppressed underclass. The exact sort of situation that leads to hatred, social schisms and violence. 

Are people really that mean? Is that what they want? To insult an entire race? To mock the suffering of generations? Of course not. The truth is that racist language still exists not because people are racist but because people are lazy. It’s the easiest way to provoke a reaction; it’s the basest and simplest way to offend someone. It’s an unimaginative and yet always successful insult. If you think about it, racist language is much more demeaning to the user. It makes them look simple. So if John Terry uses such language, something which I emphasise remains only alleged, only he comes away looking bad. 

Great, so why the fuss? We know JT’s not really racist; we know he doesn’t shun people for their skin colour. If it turns out he uses stupid words then only he looks a fool, so what do we care? Just as when he got up to extra marital shenanigans, what does it matter to anyone other than the people involved? Except in this case the fact that he’s a role model does matter. And as if to prove the point unequivocally, some Chelsea fans rose to the occasion in Belgium and displayed the influence he has. True, they didn’t use any racist words, nor did they use any insulting words, but the sentiment was clear enough. And it was as base and unimaginative as any playground bullying. I thought we had a bit more pride in our chants, I thought they were a bit more cerebral. Yes they can be insulting, and they wouldn’t be chants if they didn’t taunt, but let’s at least put in some effort and make ourselves look good.

Of course, this was revealed more by luck than judgement, if you can call two enforced first half substitutions and a centre back sending off luck, but however it came about, the young, undermanned team, marshalled by Terry and Lampard, ripped into Fulham with a relentlessness and a joie-de-vivre that recalled the days of Zola, Vialli and Gullit. As it turned out we didn’t score, which was a shame, but in the end the heightened drama of a shoot-out seems the only fitting way to wrap up such a show.

It may only be a Carling Cup tie, it may only be for a place in the fourth round, but coupled with last Sunday’s performance it bodes well for the rest of the season. Consider the emotions that the first team must have experienced at half time at Old Trafford. Two questionable goals and a third flukey tap in; for our part a mix up in front of the posts that should have reduced the deficit; it seemed that the gods were against us and that United were destined to continue their goal-scoring spree. But what happened? In the second half we outplayed and outscored them, in their own back yard. Unlike the Arsenal match, it’s no exaggeration to say any result was possible that afternoon.

Meanwhile, at the Bridge against Fulham, with subs exhausted, players outnumbered and the knowledge of a woeful track-record in penalty shoot outs, we saw the same grit and desire. A new-found camaraderie has enveloped the Blues, young and experienced; players, fans and manager alike. Momentum is gathering and in spite of what the papers are waffling on about a Manchester-won Premiership, I’ve got a feeling there may be some surprises in store this season.

In accordance with this team spirit, I think it’s only right we lend some time to conjuring up a few chants for our new arrivals, you know, to make them feel at home and whatnot.

Romelu Lukaku – Only 18 but already outmuscling everyone he’s put up against. Yes he lacks a little finesse, but when he stoops over the ball like a hawk over a freshly skewered rodent you know we’re keeping possession. Of course the name lends itself to the Beach Boys Kokomo, but listening to that again there are way too many Caribbean islands to get through before the pay off, which means we have no choice but Ricky Martin’s Livin’ Lukaku Loca.

Oriol Romeu – He was something of a mixed bag of nuts on Wednesday. Good reading of the play, nice passing and good pressing were offset by at least three suicidal mishaps. A higher caliber of opposition would probably have made him pay. But who cares? It was Fulham, and his surname fits way too well into Erasure’s Oh L’Amour for any discussion on the subject.

Josh McEachran – Cool on the ball, instinctively knows the pass and has the skill to deliver. A bit of muscle won’t hurt, nor a few more run-outs to boost confidence. Either way, there’s a whole lot of potential, which means it won’t be long till the Bridge resounds to the tune of McEachran’s On Fire by The Kings of Leon

Andre Villas-Boas – He’s cool, he’s suave and he squats in the technical area. What else but Mambo Italiano by Dean Martin?

Hey Andre!
Andre Villas-Boas.
His hair’s not grey!
Andre Villas-Boas.
He’ll win the game!
Andre Villas-Boas.
See the portugeezer as he squats down on his knees ah.

or whatever… In the meantime I’m sure we can do something with Juan Mata and Shaddap You Face and Ross Turnbull and Total Eclipse Of The Heart, right?

So down to business: it’s been a bit scrappy so far, but then that’s to be expected frankly. We’re all a bit off the pace after a few weeks lounging on the beach, hoping that our sunglasses are dark enough not to betray which way our eyes are looking. On the plus side though, it’s nice to see managers admit their failings for a change, Normally they act like lippy teenagers blaming everything except themselves, but now, with the transfer window fast closing, they are panicking like holidayers in Duty Free as the Last Call light flashes. Shall we get the Baileys or the Whisky? But I don’t like Baileys. Oh, just bung it in, come on! Wait a second we got an adaptor plug last time. What do you mean you’re not sure if we packed it? What’s the point in having one if you don’t pack it? Oh all right. Luca Modric? Well I know we packed two central midfielders. What do you mean they might not work in Europe? Oh sod it, just get him, it says gate closing. And get some minstrels while you’re there. But even in these early days we can get a glimpse of what’s in store, and I’m delighted AVB has quickly picked up on one of our new weaknesses at Stamford Bridge. He noticed, in his first game at home, that as fans we have a nervy habit of looking for scapegoats when the chips are down. Crowd anxiety sets in far too early and gets transposed to the players, who panic and compound the problem. As AVB knows, at the top level, the difference between winning and losing comes not from a team’s ability, but from its psychological reaction to adversity: from its resilience. A clock that reads 85 minutes doesn’t mean the game’s over, it means there’s a good 10 minutes left to make a difference. If you’re a goal down, there’s plenty of time not only to equalise, but then to capitalise on the shift in momentum this brings and go ahead to win. To win the Premiership means playing every one of the 95 minutes of each game, not trying for 80 then throwing in the towel. Something which goes for the fans as much as for the players. These days they call it Fergie time since it’s so often the moment when Man U snaffle all three points. Of course it used to be called Arsenal time: I remember seeing a ‘what if’ league table showing how things would look if the matches were 80 minutes long, instead of played to the final whistle. Arsenal’s invincibles, who had been comfortably top, wallowed in fourth. It was as if the magazine was saying, hey, they don’t really deserve the title, they’ve fluked it. Every time.

Somehow, winning in the final few minutes is considered underhand. As if, like Dhoni, the victors should withdraw that appeal because you know, it’s not quite fair. Which is nice in principle but butters no parsnips when it comes to reality. Tell that to the Dutch who saw the World Cup nabbed from beneath their noses with four minutes to go.

The truth is, winning in the last minute is not what makes teams champions, but rather it’s a symptom of championship-winning teams. It reflects the unerring belief and commitment that exists within the team, the two qualities essential to winning the league. AVB understands this, which is why he was surprised by the fans’ reaction to going 1-0. He sensed the anxiety that we’ve let creep in, the anxiety that has developed after giving away the title. You only need to look at the plight of Liverpool last year, or Arsenal this, to see what damage such anxiety can do. So AVB is right to nip it in the bud. Let’s not us get nervous when the clock is running down and we’re looking for a goal, that’s precisely the time when the opposition is nervous, that’s when they’ve got everything to lose. That’s when we pounce. The new signing of Mata is just what we need for this sort of killer blow. Someone in the mould of Duff or Robben, who can take it down the wing and win a corner, or who can cut inside and have a pop. That’s the vital ingredient we need to win at the death, that’s what we need for AVB time.

In truth, Carlo had to go. Even with a first League and Cup double, Carlo didn’t have what it takes to satisfy the Chelsea apparatchik, because frankly, he was just too nice a guy. He was too willing to admit when he was wrong, too magnanimous in his praise, too broad shouldered in his acceptance of criticism. In a word, he was too content, and contentment is not an attribute you look for in a successful Premiership manager.

Contentment says, hey, I’ve been here before, I’ve heard this music, you guys are all worrying about trivialities. Good runs come and go, decisions sometimes go against us, luck rolls in and out with the tides; don’t fret guys, when you look at the big picture it all evens itself out.

And just as that makes Carlo the kind of guy you’d happily share a bowl of tomato and chilli conchiglie with, or seek as Godfather to your newborn son, it just doesn’t cut it in the ruthless world of Premiership football. Managers like Mourinho and Ferguson are never content: when they lose it’s never their fault; it’s poor refereeing, or even biased refereeing, an unseen “stonewall” penalty at a crucial time, or an unfair red card. Whatever it is, you can bet that if the same thing should benefit them next time around, well, no, in that case it’s deserved, naturally.

To win, you need to be single-minded, selfish and above all else hungry. You need to want to prove yourself. And for all his merits as a coach and a footballer, you could never say Carlo needed to prove himself.

So in comes the new generation, just as it did after Ranieri. And yet, if this is the right policy, why didn’t we just stick with it first time around? Why isn’t Mourinho still the special one at Stamford Bridge? He is clearly still hungry, still desperate to prove himself on every stage. But at a time when he had arguably the steadiest ship in Europe, Abramovic let the captain slip overboard.

For all the explanations of personality clashes and ownership interference, the reason for Mourinho’s exit may be a bit more straight-forward: Mourinho wins dirty, and he makes no secret of it. The football he plays can at best be described as effective. He sacrifices every other aspect of the game to win. Witness the Intermilan victory over Barcelona in the previous Champions League: a masterclass in containment.

Abramovic has greater ambitions than mere victory, yes he wants to win the Champions League, but he really wants to own the greatest team in the world, to have a legion of fans admiring Chelsea. He wants what Barcelona have. He wants adoration. Unfortunately, the manner of Mourinho’s management means that for every victory he generates as many naysayers as he does supporters. Real Madrid are currently undergoing fundamental soul-searching as they try to work out if Mourinho’s win-at-all-costs approach is doing them more harm than good. (You couldn’t have scripted a more symbolic image than Sergio Ramos dropping the Copa Del Rey under the wheels of the victory parade bus. A trophy that cannot be proudly displayed in the cabinet.)

The arrival of Villas-Boas, hungry for success, young enough to attract the most eager footballing youth from around the world, and above all else, an attack-minded manager, heralds a Guardiola style era where camaraderie is king and the manner of winning is just as important as the winning itself.

Bring on the good times I say, and let the new dawn rise.

Anyway, getting back to the point: it’s game time. It’s time for Fernando to lollipop inside the box, for Sideshow Luiz to ruffle some Manc feathers and for Frank to slam home the penalty. With any luck Carlo will keep the Drog on the bench and use him as a 60^th minute battering ram to terrorise a flagging defence (the best way to hide his ever so slightly dwindling burst of pace). Whatever happens, Carlo’s got to roll the dice on this one, because if the tabloids are to be believed – which they always are – he’s looking down the barrel of an extended summer hols. In a nutshell: it’s our Champions League Final.

It’s not Man U’s Champion’s League Final of course, the Champion’s League Final is their Champion’s League Final, so maybe they’ll play a bit more defensively. Maybe they’ll park the bus. But I doubt it. This Man U team isn’t good enough to park a bus. They find it tough to keep a clean sheet at the best of times, so instead they play to score. This is why Fergie’s talking bullishly about the Barcelona game. Don’t be afraid, he squawks, come out fighting and blah blah. The fact is, the only way they’re going to beat Barcelona is if they score three goals, because you know Messi is going to lollipop his way to two and finish with an average of a goal a game for the tournament. (52 goals for the season so far… that’s more than most Premiership clubs.)

So we can expect an open game, with plenty of opportunities, a few lollipops and goals. Loads of goals. The thing to remember is that Arsenal, Spurs or Man City would die for the opportunity we have on Sunday, but the chance has fallen to us. Of course we couldn’t have done it without our London cohorts: Spurs did their bit by rolling the ball over the line(-ish), and obstructing lino’s view(-ish), and Arsenal did theirs by seeing out a win for a change. In many respects Sunday’s game is the culmination of a joint London effort to upset Man U. Even Wembley is getting in on the act.

But is that fair? Is it fair that teams with such long-standing rivalry as Arsenal, Spurs and West Ham, wait, no, not West Ham, they haven’t done anything, should club together to keep the trophy in their home city? In a word: No. No way. Because of course, they aren’t. Arsenal beat Man U because they hate Man U, and Spurs lost to us because they’re shit. It’s just serendipitous that these things should play into our hands. I might be mistaken here, but my hunch is that most impartials will want Chelsea to win this Sunday, and Man U to beat Barcelona. Screw it, I’d settle for that. One last push and the trophy is ours!

On a lighter note, I recently broke my arm on the footy pitch in what some have seen as a physical manifestation of my innate desire to shirk the responsibilities of impending fatherhood. I prefer to think of it as sympathy pain for our aging and battered Chelsea squad. It has taught me two things however: it’s almost impossible to squeeze the right amount of shampoo directly onto one’s head without feeling like a Christmas pudding; typing with only your right hand is slow and laborious. Unless you’re typing the word lollipop.

Is that naive? Maybe. Am I deliberately forgetting some things and highlighting others? Almost certainly. Like all football fans, my memory has been likened to that of a goldfish, or a sieve, or a goldfish in a sieve, flapping about erratically. But so what? Last night’s result was excellent, and here’s why:

That Clattenburg decision. Now even though I have the memory of a goldfish I still remember that decision. (This may be because the goldfish in question supported Spurs and was living in a bowl in front of Sky Sports, but that’s incidental.) Nani McPhee handballs, acts daft and inexplicably Clattenburg allows the goal. Naturally it was only one decision in a whole season, but it seemed to signal something. It said, even when the rest of the country can see the folly, Man U still walk away with the points. It said that Man U are a force you can’t fight, a message which breeds confidence in a team, weariness in opposition, and goes a long way to generating good results. Last night we popped that bubble. We played Man U, we played attacking football and we played with confidence. They lead, we won. And we revealed their vulnerability to the Premiership.

David Luiz. Don’t worry, Torres will have his day, but last night was all about David Luiz, or D-Loo as I think he’s now called. D-Loo had an awesome game. Frenetic, frizzy, fearless… He looks  like a defender who relishes the Premiership fight, who sees top quality opposition forwards bearing down on him and thinks bring it on! I’ve often wondered what sort of person chooses to become a defender, or even a keeper. If memory serves it was the kid at school who’d bought the kit, as a sort of back door way of getting in the team. And yet, it’s occurred to me that if you measure levels of involvement in any given match, it’s more than likely the defenders, and the goalkeeper in particular, have a much more exciting game than the strikers. That moment of adrenalin championed by adverts and computer games, that one-on-one, may happen once a game for a striker, but the defender gets it every ten minutes. There’s no margin for error in defence, and in the Premiership D-Loo looks like a player who’s finally found his home.

Attacking mentality: It’s one-all, we’re on the up, we’re looking tasty, but we need something new, something fresh. Who do you bring on? Salomon Kalou. Ah… Was that the sound of the opposition filling their shorts? Nope, not really. That was the sound of the opposition saying, meh, Kalou. Too often this has been the case. Good old Kalou. I like him, but he’s not really the game-changer you might want in those situations… Last night, same scenario, and who’s stretching out on the sidelines? Yeah, that’s right: Didi. Buckle up, bitches.

European message: The most important consequence of last night’s result is the statement it makes to the Champions League. We still win the big matches. It doesn’t matter who you are, we’ll beat you. And we’re not even at full strength yet.

Lastly, and this is on a personal note, what’s really nice is to screw up Man U’s title charge a little: Yup, it’s petty, and it’s counterintuitive, since their nearest rivals are Arsenal, but I’m fed up with Man U. Especially this Man U, mutedly riding on the coattails of the genuinely exciting, attacking side of the past few years. I don’t want this Man U to win the league, and we’ve just put a spanner in their works. So what if that tacitly endorses ‘an’ Arsenal? I have the memory of a sieve, which doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten old rivalries, just that I remember rinsing broccoli under the cold tap a lot.

First of all, let’s knock this whole Andy Gray thing on the head. Andy’s not a nasty man. He’s Andy Gray. He’s in an idiot, sure, but he’s not nasty. So what if he said something sexist? Who cares? This isn’t the 1950s. This is the 21st Century. These days everybody knows there’s no innate difference in the intelligence of men and women. Just like we all know the moon isn’t made of Le Roulé, or that they don’t stand on their heads in Australia. Nowadays it’s a given. You don’t have to go overboard if one numpty says something to the contrary. If they want to think that, then let them be an idiot. Why not? But sacking them for it is a bit rich. If Sky want to sack Andy Gray for being an idiot they should really ask themselves why they were paying him £1.3m in the first place. £1.3m for saying “Did he mean it? Ah don’t know.” Who’s the idiot there? And anyway, who isn’t an idiot in football punditry? Clive Tyldesley? Mark Lawrenson? They’re all idiots in their own way, but let’s not sack them for it. Poor old Andy Gray. I for one am going to miss him. I’m going to miss his unique take on the English language, the fogginess with which he offers his insight and most of all I’m going to miss his unanswered questions placed in the minds of footballers. In his world if no one else’s, footballers think a lot. Andy Gray, take a bow son. Good riddance to Richard Keys though, he’s a twat.

So anyway, on to the business end of things: £76m in one evening? BOOM! We’ve all had blowouts, I remember once when I went to chicken cottage and got the whole family box, just for me. But £76m? That’s serious spending. Honestly, Brewster’s Millions would be a cinch these days. And yet what are people saying? As usual they’re casting doubts… Is it the right move? Is Fernando Torres going to have the right mentality? Is he perhaps too much of an injury liability at £50m? And what about David Luiz? 26m on a centre back who is untested in the Premier League is punchy isn’t it? And you know what I say? Who cares? The important thing is that £76m means one thing: Roman Abramovich is looking after the future of the club.

There had been voices whispering that Chelsea was a spent force. We knew we had an aging side and we knew we would need to bolster it at some stage. In the midst of this Roman had his dream of a Barcelona style academy with its own stream of awesome youth players coming through the ranks. But we all knew deep down that cash was going to have to be spent to give them the best chance of success. We all knew that with Manchester City amassing such a wealth of attacking talent that something was going to have to be done. Even Barcelona spent 40m Euros on David Villa. Deep down, we all knew that if we wanted ice in our Baileys and the lift was broken then Marcus Tandy was going to have to break sweat. And what happens? You want ice? You got ice. Booya!

The last night of the transfer window was pivotal for Chelsea’s future, and it couldn’t have ended in a more emphatic way. Chelsea FC are still the champions and it’s going to take something special to keep us out of the picture.

On a lighter note I think it is quietly astonishing that anyone paid £35m for Andy Carroll. I mean, sure, he’s got potential, but £35m? What were they thinking? And what about Dirky Kuyt? How do you think that makes him feel? In future, in order to avoid the brouhaha over bankers’ bonuses, they should just announce the sums in portions of Andy Carroll. It doesn’t sound so bad when you hear Bob Diamond is getting Andy Carroll’s sideburns at the end of the year, does it?

This year, my resolutions are fairly predictable: go to the gym a bit more, remember people’s names and throw in inappropriate proverbs so as to seem more erudite (after all, a golden key can open any door).

So far, so good. I’ve not met anyone new, so that’s 100% success on the name thing. On the flip side, since I’ve not met anyone new the proverbs thing is just pissing off old friends. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Anyway, the real boon has been my gym attendance, in the main because it has reacquainted me with MTV Dance. Is it just me or are there more girls in bikinis snogging other girls in bikinis these days? I watched back-to-back videos of Enrique Iglesias and Dizzee Rascal (you try requisitioning the remote from the local gym orang utan) and both featured women in bikinis snogging. Is that a 2011 thing? I hope so. After all, all is grist that comes to the mill.

Another benefit of being in the gym is that I’ve managed to catch highlights of the Australian Open, and with them remembered an important lesson. Players don’t win because they win points, players win because they get and retain momentum. Here’s a hypothetical situation: if a player has come from two sets to love down and it’s the beginning of the fifth, who do you think is going to win? Is it the player who’s won the last two? Or is it the player who’s just rested for two sets? In truth, it’s impossible to say, because momentum can shift not only between sets, but between points. This is something Chelsea would do well to remember.

Last month we lost our way badly. We picked up some injuries and suspensions and lost a couple of matches. Then instead of concentrating on regaining momentum we began to see the title slip away, panicked and decided that instead of playing sensibly and rebuilding from the defence, we had to win everything. In short we lost our cool.

Here’s a statistic: In tennis matches of four sets or more, only 55% of players who win the first set go on to win the match. Basically, it doesn’t matter who wins the first set, what matters is convincing yourself you’re good enough to win and making the opposition doubt themselves, and that can happen at any stage. What’s immaterial is that I made that statistic up; what’s important is what it proves: it’s all about momentum.

Sure Chelsea had a rough patch, but the season is not over. We should absolutely not write anything off. Let’s start by rebuilding slowly. A few wins against weaker opposition, if necessary an away draw or two to our main title rivals. Let’s play the percentages. You’ll see, with the cold weather delays Man U are going to have a heavily congested end of season. All it takes is an injury or a suspension and everything changes, and what with the way Darren Fletcher’s playing it won’t be long before the cards start totting up.

Our squad has too much experience to give up the title chase in January. Let’s use some of it to get the right results. Last night, Real Betis played Barcelona in the Copa Del Rey. Although they’d won the first leg 5-0, a full strength Barcelona were two nil down in the first seven minutes and Betis were swarming all over them. Another Betis attack was partially cleared but before it could continue Xavi was spotted lying injured on the ground and Betis booted the ball out of play. The attack was over and Xavi jumped up and waved play on. Xavi, arguably the best footballer in the world, used a dirty little trick like that to break up the opposition’s momentum. Barca are now safely through to the semis.

You know what’s coming: there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Let’s use our noggin, let’s get on with the job and let’s make the other teams feel some pressure. Mark my words, this season everyone has weaknesses and they’ll start to show soon. If nothing else, we should make absolutely sure that whoever takes the Premier League title this season, has to earn it.

Sunday’s second half performance showed the sort of commanding display expected of the champions on away days. Every team has its mid-season blip (which usually owes as much to the vagaries of the draw as to unforeseen suspensions and injuries) but the best teams are those that can dust themselves down and get back into the fight. This season will not be won on an away draw or a couple of dropped points, this year the fight is in the minds of the players, and 45 minutes in at White Heart Lane we saw a Chelsea looking to get back in the driving seat.

At the same point in the game when they went on to dismantle Arsenal, Spurs found themselves hanging on by a thread, time-wasting over elaborate injury charades, trying desperately to cling on to a point. And let’s not forget this was at home. Finally, Chelsea looked sharp in their passing, quick to close down and dangerous in attack. In short it was Premiership-winning Chelsea. We may not have taken all three points, but we had the opportunity, and most importantly  we showed the desire. We keep that up, and the wins will start rolling in.

Naturally some will infer that the return of Lampard was a significant influence, although in truth he was predictably anonymous during his 20 minutes on the pitch. Perhaps more significance should be placed on the impact his presence had on the team’s expectations. It served as a much needed reminder that Chelsea don’t settle for a point, not when the spine of Terry, Lampard and Drogba is on the pitch. Quickly this belief carried through to the less high-profile players, fifty-fifty balls were won and lost-causes were chased down to force panicked clearances that helped regain possession; faced with this pressure Spurs were reduced to hopeful breaks and desperate clearances. Redknapp brought on Crouch and Keane in the second half and I can’t remember a significant contribution from either.  JT was once again the boss of his third of the pitch, and on occasion of the other two thirds too… there’s nothing else in the game of football quite like the sight of those old imperious strides up the turf and into the opposing area. Welcome back!

Now some may say, hang on, how can you be so naïve? Chelsea drew when they should have won. They’re misfiring, they’re past it, Drogba can’t even knock in a penalty these days. But I don’t know about that… Next up is Man U, and if I’m right and we are seeing a return to form in the nick of time, I’m willing to call a first league defeat for the Red Fairies. Besides, if Chelsea are past it, how would you describe a team that relies on Scholes and Giggs for its creative input? Mark my words, 2-0 and a red card for Darren Fletcher. 

One thing is certain, this season is going to throw up a lot of unexpected results. Yes, we’re fourth in the table, and maybe Man U do have games in hand, but if we’ve learnt anything it’s that there are plenty more upsets waiting around the corner.